Duskfire Glacier from the chaos of your kingdom

There is a draw to the glacier that rests, cradled between two mountains though Wardruna sticks to the forest: made up of towering maples painted with the colors of autumn and pine trees painted in striking emerald and frosted blue pines. He draws in a deep breath, black, leathery nostrils assessing the sickly sweet scent of the maple trees tempered by the sharpened tang of the pine trees, the pungent scent of blood mingling from his half eaten opossum: plump as it was. His coordination is improving: the loss of his eyesight in his left eye even after the scar the Goði had healed was devastating but he preserved. He endures. He teaches himself how to hunt again, how to judge depth perception and distance with only one working eye to guide him. It has not been easy and though he is growing skilled he struggles still. He is grateful for the meat that settles in his stomach: though it is more of a snack than it is an actual meal. Still: it is food in his belly. It is nourishment and he’s caught it all by himself even with his disability. It’s a baby step in a positive direction; and he thanks the Gods for it despite the humiliation he has suffered in the wake of his devotion to them, in the persistent sting of a challenge for chieftain lost.

Wardruna scoops up the half eaten kill and carries it with him to where the meltwater of the lake placing the corpse at his paws as he laps at the cool water, submerging his muzzle in the frigid water for a few seconds before he lifts his head in attempt to wash the blood and bits of flesh from his muzzle after he’s taken his long, deep drink to sate the fierce thirst that had gripped him. The blood writhes stark red in the cold water and he watches it for a second before he grasps his meal betwixt his jaws with the intent of carrying it to a place to store it until later in the night or earlier in the morning when hunger grips him once more.